A Brief Reunion
One day, another transport arrived from Radom that brought with it new-found hope. Among the arrivals were a couple of friends from home. In hopes that someone among the prisoners could give me news about my sister or brother, I always stood at the gate to await every new transport whenever possible.
This transport, however, took much more time in controlling and checking the new arrivals. As usual, guards ordered the Jews to hand over any valuables. They then separated men and women and endlessly searched. It took hours. It was night when they arrived at the sheds, a night I will hardly forget.
I was standing at the barbed wire fence, waiting. Finally, my friends Pola and Richard Tenewicke appeared. I ran up to them and threw my arms around them. Pola and Richard told me that Binne had been sent to Sucha, together with our friend Helen. Sucha, an agricultural labor camp, was where the prisoners had to do gardening.
I was happy to hear that my sister had at least Helen by her side to help and to take care of her. I did not get to speak much that evening with my friends. The Ukrainian police separated the men and women again to be taken to their barracks. I could not sleep that night. I lay awake thinking of our reunion.
The next morning, I was the first to get up, and I went to the sheds where they lived. The Ukrainian guards were already there distributing the work. My friends got sent to the welding machines, one of the hardest jobs. But unflinchingly and quietly, they accepted their assignments.
The workers worked in three shifts. Theirs was the first shift from 6:00 am--2:00 pm. The next shift was from 2:00--10:00 pm, and the third shift was from 10:00 pm -- 6:00 am. Luckily, all three of us worked the first shift. I got to meet them and spend time with them because of it. On our free time, we all went into the bordering woods. We sang and talked about the beauty of nature and the arts, anything but war and camps. Having friends from home brought such joy, something I hadn’t known for quite a while.
My time with Pola and Richard was all too brief. A week after their transport arrived, an explosion occurred in the factory where my dear friends worked, and all of them perished. Nothing remained of them. I was crushed with pain.
I had loved being with Pola and Richard. To add even more depth to the tragedy, my friend Yetta was also among those who died. I swore that I would never allow myself to become so attached to anyone again. I was in a terrible state of mind. My friends’ deaths weighed on my soul as if I had somehow been guilty of their demise.
Dear Rose,
I would like to start out by saying thank you. Thank you for being strong enough and brave enough to tell your truly heart-breaking story. I will forever remember you and the huge impact you made, not only on me, but the rest of my classmates. If I have children one day, they will definitely be told your story by me.
Also, I am so very sorry you and millions of others experienced the horror of all that happened to you during The Holocaust. I was especially moved when you spoke about your friend, Yeta Haftarczyk. You said that God led you to her to give her a sense of hope and a reason to live. You put aside your own pain and even put yourself in danger to help her survive. It is a remarkable lesson in selflessness and kindness. I will look to your example, to put my own needs aside to help someone else. From now on, if I see something happening that is wrong, I won’t be a bystander and just let it happen, like you said.
I hope that for rest of your life you are treated with the utmost respect and love that you deserve.
Love,
Taylor Cornelius
Dear Mrs. Rose Williams,
First of all, know that you forever hold all my respect. Just like everyone else who is writing a letter to you today, I will say thank you for sharing your story, for only a brave heart could. Thank you for coming with kindness and an open heart.
I can speak for myself in saying that, with you in mind, I will not be a bystander. With you in mind, I promise to stay humble and kind. For you and your family, I will not take my loved ones for granted, and I will remind them every day that I love them. To honor you and your family and all those who suffered, I will be the best I can be in hopes that one day I may be a fraction of the woman you are.
Love always,
Nicte Sobrevilla
Dear Rose,
There is no right way to begin this letter without thanking you. I am so lucky to have had the opportunity to hear you speak and the chance to personally interview you. Reading your story was absolutely heart-rending, but hearing your voice recount the evil you encountered made it even more painful. Your beauty and grace hides the awful things you endured.
At the age of seventeen, I have yet to make many life decisions. I can’t even begin to imagine, at such a young age, being warned of a life-threatening war and told that only three of your seven family members would have the opportunity to get away. My reaction would have been the same as yours: confused and distressed.
Throughout my life, I have always had such a close bond with my grandmother. Living across the country from her, I have days when I get emotional about being so far, although she’s just a phone call away. Hearing the pain in your voice as you described the memory of watching your own grandmother being shot by soldiers as she tried to save children brought tears to my eyes. Ever since then, when I get the chance, I remember to hold my grandmother a little bit tighter.
The first time I heard you speak was only three months following my first major loss. In those three months, and even now, I can’t help but remember and replay all of the events that lead to the loss of my best friend. From the last words I’ve ever heard from her to the minute I got an unexpected call—moments that seemed harmless became engraved in my brain. I imagine you remember every detail of seeing not only complete strangers, but your own family members, have their lives taken from them. From your choice of words used to describe your experiences, I can only wonder how much pain lies beneath your beloved persona.
Rose, you are an absolute inspiration—thank you. Thank you for being here today. Thank you for finding the strength to tell your story. And, most of all, thank you for the lessons you have taught me and my classmates. You have impacted my views on forgiveness more than anyone I have ever met. I am forever grateful.
Sincerely,
Xandria Hernandez
Dear Rose,
How selfish we are, and how kind you are. We ask you to relive some of the worst memories that anyone could endure. It is the cost of truly learning, to hear the agonized stories of one who has survived. Knowing the horror that you endured and how painful it must be to recall these events makes me even more grateful to have heard your words, in your voice. There are no words to express how much I empathized with you as you spoke of your grandmother. Your pain was palpable.
However, I will let my actions speak for me. I refuse to allow the pain you have endured to be silenced. I refuse to allow others to be hurt in the way that you have been hurt. I will let my actions show my empathy. I will not stay silent. Thank you, Rose. You are my inspiration.
Truly, truly,
Jacob Nesbitt
Chapter Ten:
Enter Elsie
They say that when G-d closes one door, He opens another. The loss of Yetta, Richard, and Pola sent me deeply into another abyss of despair. I had watched my grandmother murdered, suffered the transport of my parents and little brother to “resettlement,” which we now believed meant they were probably dead, and was again separated from my remaining siblings, Binne and Jurek. And now this? How much more suffering can one young girl endure? What hope is left? Will I lose Binne and Jurek, too? I had felt keenly alone before, but it was nothing like this. Little did I know that on that same transport that brought that brief, but joyful, reunion, there was a woman who would become my savior, Elsie Finklestein.
When Hitler came to power in 1933, the first thing he did was to expel the foreign Jews from Germany. Elsie’s family wa
s Polish but had lived in Ulm, Germany, where she grew up. When forced to return to Poland, Elsie and her family settled in Radom. Elsie’s parents were among those rounded up in the August 16 liquidation of Walowa. By the time I met her in Pionki, she had lost all of her family.
Elsie’s bunk was right over mine. Despite some similarities of home town and loss of parents, an age difference of several years existed. She was in her late thirties and had taught German in Ulm for many years. Over time, mostly at night when we lay sleeplessly in our bunks, we shared our life stories with one another.
When the explosion at the Pionki factory happened, Elsie bore witness to my deep grief and ceaseless tears. She tried to comfort me. She even attempted to share her meager ration of bread with me, but I wouldn’t accept it. I seemed determined to sink further and further into darkness.
“Stop crying, Rose! You’re going to make yourself sick. Please, maybe one day we will return to Radom. After the war, you and I will go back. Maybe we will find some family alive there. You have to keep up your strength.”
She never gave up on me, even when I was determined to give up on myself. With time, my natural resilience seemed to emerge. Our bond grew stronger as months passed in Pionki. Elsie became a sort of surrogate mother to me. The friendship remained for years to come. Our journeys became one and the same, starting with Pionki through liberation and beyond. Elsie was beside me through some of the most heinous camp experiences. One of those atrocities was at the ammunition factory.
In the factory, workers use a great deal of alcohol in the manufacturing of ammunition. They sometimes tried to steal alcohol, often bribing sentries as they exited the plant after a shift. Normally, bribed guards passed word to the workers when an inspection was about to occur.
But one night, when I was working the 2:00--10:00 pm shift, an unannounced inspection took place. Evidently, someone discovered a noticeable depletion of alcohol and reported it. Generally, there was only one sentry at one checkpoint; this night, there were three checkpoints.
All 270 workers filed past the first checkpoint okay, the second checkpoint okay, but we noticed a backup at the third checkpoint. Word spread through the line that there were three huge SS guards with whips beating people and searching them for stolen alcohol. Quickly, workers dumped what they could. Unfortunately, the SS caught seven prisoners red-handed.
The guards began to count off people, putting every eleventh person aside. Including the seven caught, guards pulled a total of twenty-seven workers out of line. They shot twenty of them then and there. The seven thieves awaited a more painful public execution. They were hanged the next morning, their bodies left dangling for three days. Just before the rope did its work, the executioner ordered victims to pronounce a last wish. They all expressed a desire for revenge and liberty from the suffering of mankind. One of them sought revenge himself at the last moment; he kicked the hangman in the stomach.
In typical German fashion, all of us had to endure retribution in order to understand the serious nature of such crimes. For a day and a half, we stood in roll call position and looked up at the men hanging. We had no food or water. It was cold outside and snow was on the ground.
If a German or Ukrainian caught one of us looking down or nodding off from exhaustion, they beat us. Our only friend was the night. At night, we could sneak out of line and run into the nearby woods to relieve ourselves and gather snow to our parched lips. I learned that one can withstand hunger for long periods of time, but water is a necessity for life.
After being released from this vigil, we walked away like shadows, broken and exhausted. We had all grown older from the experience. However, with Elsie’s words of encouragement and her model of strength, I made it through that ordeal.
That first night back in the bunk, I had a dream. I told Elsie that in the dream I had written a poem, the first verse I ever wrote. I poured my heart into words. She was deeply touched and said it was beautiful. The translation from Polish to English may not do it justice, but I recall the poem as if it were written yesterday:
Happiness, Happiness, you are so far.
Are you in the wind or in a star?
I am seeking you, wherever I go,
But you hide yourself like a silent foe.
When will you show me your shining face
And give me joy and sweet solace?
Months went by and then, once again, a harsh reality struck horror with its burning fist. Now we were in the center of destruction. The Russians began to bomb our camp. For three days and nights, we lay outside while air raid sirens blared, exposed to shelling and without food or water. The bombs poured down like some infernal rain, day and night.
Man is a strange creature—-he becomes accustomed to everything, even bombing. We lay there, feeling the earth tremble under our bodies, but the bombs, as we saw it, were not our real enemies. The real enemies were the Germans. The bombers were our friends; they fought against the Germans, even if they killed us in the process.
A transport was impossible. We had to stay where we were. After three fearful days, the Germans closed the camp. We marched to the railroad station and loaded into cattle cars headed for Auschwitz. It was June of 1944.
Dear Mrs. Williams,
I can express nothing but gratitude for your time and willingness to share your story with us. It was beautifully expressed and truly inspiring.
The part that left the greatest impression on me was the love you felt for your family, especially your sister, Binne. Before you spoke to us, I thought I knew the full importance of family. But your account of despair and loneliness without your loved ones, and the hope you described after finding your sister again, touched my heart. You taught me so many wonderful lessons about family and perseverance that I would not have felt had you not shared your experiences.
I promise to advocate the reality of those horrible events that came to pass during the Holocaust if anyone dare deny it. It would be a privilege and an honor to share your story with them.
Sincerely,
Andrea Mills
Dear Rose,
How are you? I am doing well. You’ll have to forgive my awkwardness. I write letters. I do, I promise, but never have I written to someone so highly esteemed and recognized. So I’ll try to overcome my excitement and write something intelligible.
Rose, you’re incredible. Your message and your story will stay with me always. I cannot attest to having experienced anywhere near the same degree of pain as you have. Still, I find your message applies to all circumstances in life.
Everyone has their own difficulties and struggles. For lesser things, people have acted out. I’ve seen personally people who will lose their calm, scream and say the most terrible things over such trivial happenings. I’ve seen relationships and friendships ended just because of how somebody “looked at somebody.” And I can’t tell you how many times I have heard (or thought) “I’ll never forgive him/her!” People take all this hatred and carry it in their lives, poisoning themselves and everyone with whom they come into contact. For many years, I believed it made sense not to forgive people. Some things just appeared unforgivable.
But my eyes were opened during my sophomore year of high school. We learned about genocide in my history class. I was alarmed. I felt like my happy impression of the world had been shattered; my innocence had been taken from me. I was disgusted with the killers who could be so cruel. I was scared of the ongoing horror that takes place even today. And I sat trembling in my seat as I asked myself: “Why do these things happen? How do we put a stop to this evil? How could someone forgive something so profoundly immoral?”
From the Rwandan Genocide, I remember a mother who had lost her husband and two children in the massacre. She was giving food to some soldiers, to the very soldier who had killed her family. What she said reminded me of your words. She said that it was necessary to forgive. And she explained
that holding onto hatred only hurts the person who will not let go. The atrocity had been committed. She could not change the past. The only thing left to do was to move forward.
That message stuck with me then and hearing the same message from you solidified my belief. There is nothing that cannot be forgiven. Through every difficult situation we must look ahead. It is the only thing to do. We as human beings are survivors and survivors are meant to not only survive, but to thrive.
Thank you, Rose, for your message and your commitment to that message. Thank you for speaking and listening and loving with all your heart.
Sincerely,
Yasmine Glore
Dear Mrs. Rose,
Learning about the Holocaust in class has always triggered emotion for me, but seeing you behind the podium made things all the more real. When you spoke about your family with so much love, it reminded me of my love for my family. When you spoke about your grandmother and her bravery, I was reminded of my grandmother as well. Listening to your story, I was simply amazed with how you survived the ghetto, the work camps, and the concentration camps. There were so many obstacles in your way, and yet you still managed to come through it all. You are an amazingly strong woman.
I was touched by the story of how you and your friend Elsie met. The fact that she showed so much kindness to you when you needed it most, even while she was experiencing the same horrors herself, attests to the fact that there are good people in this world.
Your speech today has taught me to cherish the moments and time I have with my family, because, like you said, you never know when they will be gone. Thank you, Rose. I will be sure to tell your story so that your legacy will live on.
Sincerely,
Kate Keane
Arrival at Auschwitz-Birkenau, May 1944
Letters to Rose Page 9